


armistice | the last thing my heart is worth

by pseudocitrus



Category: Tokyo Ghoul
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Blood, Death Wish, F/M, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Slow Build
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-02-22
Updated: 2015-09-01
Packaged: 2018-03-14 12:03:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 11
Words: 17,644
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3409862
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pseudocitrus/pseuds/pseudocitrus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Touka tries to avenge Kaneki by killing Arima, and instead gets recruited into a plan to stop the violence between ghouls and humans. The city is tired of tragedies; what it needs is a good romance.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. capture | the way i die

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [перемирие | последняя вещь, стоящая моего сердца](https://archiveofourown.org/works/4892125) by [Aninasi](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aninasi/pseuds/Aninasi), [December15](https://archiveofourown.org/users/December15/pseuds/December15)
  * Translation into 中文 available: [停战协议|我的心要交给一个最不想给的人](https://archiveofourown.org/works/8168605) by [Lucyair](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lucyair/pseuds/Lucyair)



> inspired by mielitapot ’s hideously/wonderfully angsty fic “[He Won’t](http://mielitapot.tumblr.com/post/102624198268/i-really-dunno-why-i-wrote-this-thing-heh-just).” (you should read it! and if you do, please give her feedback ✿ )
> 
> so yeah, thank you mielitapot for the inspiration as well as the permission to write something inspired by your fic!
> 
> see [here](http://www.tofugu.com/2011/02/23/yoroshiku-onegaishimasu-meaning/) for the meaning(s) of "yoroshiku onegaishimasu."
> 
> ...this is a strange ship, but i've found myself reaaallly strange enjoying myself with it. hope you do too!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Touka tries to exact revenge.

She waits.

:::

Years.

:::

And throughout it, hears nothing of him.

Except.

A hundred perspectives of the  _Reaper_ , and how the point of his quinque dugstabbed _ground_  into the sockets of Kaneki’s eyes.

:::

Touka spends weeks tailing him, watching for when she can catch him without his squad.

She is sure she can get at least one good hit in before he takes her down, and she’s almost right.

Her kagune leaves a gash in that white coat that flares a delicious red.

And then he takes her.

But not  _down_.

:::

She’s tied up. And thrown into darkness.

She has so little life left, and even that is hollowed out of her. She’s disemboweled with nothing more than a couple days and an empty room.

When the door opens, she jerks up. She lunges, and jams her chin on the floor. She unleashes her kagune, and tinges the air with featherdown gray. She snarls, and ends up with something that sounds like a moan.

She’s silent then, except for her stomach, which churns as she smells the human beneath the white jacket.

“Rabbit,” the Reaper says. “Kirishima Touka.”

She tries to spit at him, but her mouth is dry.

He kneels down, picks her up, sets her back on the chair that she can’t quite fit into because her hands are fettered against the small of her back. Her struggles end up as nothing more than trembles, and a slump.

“Kill me already,” she growls, trying to hide her fear that he will not.

He regards her. Despite herself, a chill rises up across her body. This is the  _Reaper._

“You should know that I would be happy to kill you,” he says. “But there’s something more I want. For that matter, there’s something more that  _you_  want.”

“Something I want more than for you to stab my eyes out so I can stop looking at your hideous face?” she demands. “I don’t think so.”

She aims a kick at him, which he dodges effortlessly. Touka huffs, and continues. “You  _murdered_  Kaneki Ken. There’s nothing I want from you.”

He regards her. “That whole incident is unfortunate. I hear that Centipede had very admirable traits. But he was too far gone, and a danger to the public.”

Kaneki Ken, gangly bookworm, barely able to do a backflip or say anything without smiling or sobbing about it. Kaneki Ken,  _Centipede,_  a cannibal and danger to the public. Touka shakes her head, trying to slough off her tears.

“ _Kill me!_ ” she shouts. “Spare me your shitty words already!”

“Do you really not care about anyone still alive in this city?” the Reaper asks. “Not even Fueguchi Hinami?”

Touka’s heart judders to a halt. She widens her eyes.

“Perhaps Kirishima Ayato,” he continues. “Maybe Nishio Nishiki. And then there’s Kosaka Yoriko —”

“Yoriko is  _human_ ,” Touka bursts, and hates how little breath her voice has, and how much panic.

“Don’t worry,” he assures her. “I know.”

“Y-you — you can’t —”

“I won’t,” he tells her. “Except as a last resort. I’d rather have you cooperate freely.”

Touka turns her face away from him.

“Ask me what I want,” he suggests.

Touka closes her eyes.

He recites an address, and though Touka doesn’t recognize it, she figures it must be Hinami and Ayato’s. Her hands clench into fists. She forces the question out through her teeth.

“What could you, the biggest piece of shit in the city, possibly want?”

“An end,” he responds, and Touka glances back at him, eyes narrow.

“It’s the truth. I’m slowing,” he explains. “As evidenced by the fact that you could hit me. There’s no one skilled enough to take my place. Rather than lose, I’d prefer a truce. I’m sure you feel the same.”

Touka snorts. “Whether I feel that way or not doesn’t matter. There’s no way you could day the word ’truce’ to anyone and have them not laugh in your face.”

“There is. A group that I caught recently gave me the idea. They seemed to think,” he says, “that tragedies are unpopular.”

“So?” Touka demands. “So what?” This person is fucking infuriating. “What  _is_  popular?”

“Romances.”

For a moment, she doesn’t get it.

And then her face pales.

“You’re  _sick_!” she screams. “You’re  _disgusting_  — a disgusting, perverted old man! I would never — I would  _never_  — you  _sadist_  — just kill me already!”

“You’d rather die than have peace?” he asks. “You’d rather die than help those like you to live their lives the way humans do?”

“No! That’s —  _not_  —” Touka bites her lip and makes herself look at him. She tries to strengthen her shaking voice, to no avail.

“Why  _me_?”

“I’ve said already. I want cooperation. You’re the one ghoul in this city for whom I have something you want. Some _one_  you want,” he amends.

Hope stabs her in the heart, hard, and Touka reels, and feels fury stain her vision red.

“You’re a fucking liar.  _Fuck you!_ ” she roars. “You’re the one who killed him! Die, you sadist! Murderer!  _Fuck you!_ ”

The Reaper sighs. As she continues shrieking, he stands, and strolls to the door.

“You’re in my house,” he tells her. “No one will come save you. The room is soundproofed, but there’s a speaker in it. Just let me know when you’re ready to talk.”

He leaves. Even alone, Touka screams, and screams, and screams, until she has no more voice to scream with; and then, even though she knows he must be listening, she sobs.

:::

She has no idea how much time passes. Enough time, at least, that the acid in her stomach feels like it’s going to eat its way out of her. Enough time that she finds herself dreaming of freeing her hands just to have her fingers to chew.

In the end, she never calls him, but he comes anyway. She can smell his approach as soon as he enters the hall outside the door. By the time the door opens, her mouth is watering.

She’s on the floor again, and he places her back in the chair. Her head bobs up and down, in exhaustion, and weakness. Blearily, she notes that he’s brought in another chair.

“You’re stubborn,” he says, like a compliment. “So I’ll kill you, if that’s what you want.”

The Reaper sits across from her.

“But I thought I’d try to talk to you a little more first. Ready?”

Touka doesn’t answer, and he starts anyway.

He talks. About the guitar case he used to carry — about the classmates he’s seen butchered by ghouls — about the orphans that litter the Doves’ ranks, people who have lost siblings, parents, limbs, consciousness, sanity.

He talks about her father. Her brother. He talks about how much care Ayato takes of Hinami, and vice versa. About how much time they spend together, about the few younger ghouls they’ve taken under their wing, about how they talk about adopting more. He narrates, with eloquence, what it might be like for all of them to live together, in the open. For Touka to have relatives who won’t be orphaned. Ghouls that could grow, without fear, without hunger.

He eyes her, and then talks about the ones that have been lost already. Surely Touka has one or two…right? If she agrees to his plans, then it wouldn’t mean just the end of fighting, the end of fear. It would mean that she would finally get —

“Deal,” Touka whispers. The Reaper stops talking; she looks away, pinches her eyes shut. Her voice is ragged with disuse, with the agony of hunger, with the crush of her own shame. “Fine, whatever, I’ll do it. Deal.”

She can feel him staring. She doesn’t repeat herself. Instead, she snaps, “Well? Give me some food or I’ll die before your magnificent romance takes off.”

She expects him to leave, to give her one last moment with her self and her soul before she loses both. Instead he brings his chair closer to hers, and takes off his coat, and loosens his tie. Dimly, she thinks some part of her should be disgusted, but all she feels is relief, and anticipation. No waiting. Food is here.

He leans toward her, exposing the skin at the base of his throat, and she bites down, and sighs, and drinks, messily. Her teeth gnash, in an attempt to pain him, but he says nothing, just helps steady her, and breathes slowly, in and out. When her gulps become even rather than desperate, when she starts to straighten on her own, he pushes her back. He presses a handkerchief against his wound.

“I hope you’ll consider that a gesture of my goodwill,” the Reaper says.

Touka licks her lips, but doesn’t bother wiping away the blood. She searches his eyes for repulsion, for anything to give away that he’s thinking  _Monster_  when he looks at her; but his gaze is as glassy and dead as usual.

She thinks,  _Fuck you;_  and says, “Untie me.”

He does. Her arms ache and she can’t help a sigh as she rubs them and coaxes the blood and feeling back in.

He watches her carefully, as if waiting for her to attack him. She doesn’t give him the pleasure. She stares into space, and wonders if she is really, actually doing this.

As if there’s anything better she could be doing. As if there’s anyon…anything left that she’s waiting for.

“So…” she says. “Where should I start?”

“Where should  _we_  start,” the Reaper corrects, and won’t say anything more until she mutters, “Where should we start.”

“Introductions.” He bows. “My name is Arima Kishou. Yoroshiku onegaishimasu.”

“Hello…Arima-san,” Touka mumbles, inclining her head. “Kirishima Touka. Yo…yoroshiku.”


	2. debut | now i know

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's the moment of truth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks to all those who are following along this crackship fic and have left kind words :) i also appreciate the words that kind of sound like “omg why would you” but i’m never sure whether the right response to those is “thank you”;;

Arima’s plan is detailed, and completely ridiculous.

Everything is outlined, from the story of how they meet, to how she should respond to the supposed “inevitable” drop in the levels of violence across the city. She pages through until she sees the word _wedding_ , and immediately snaps the folder shut, feeling nauseous.

_There’s no way that this will work,_ she thinks. But that’s not her problem.

“Don’t forget our deal,” she reminds him, every day; and every day, he replies: “I remember. Not yet.”

She considers trying to kill him again, for a couple days — but Arima never seems to let his guard down. After the mess that came from her first attempt, she decides to bide her time. Arima needs her; he (probably) won’t kill her before her opportunity arrives.

Besides, she has as good a vantage point as anyone could hope for. She stays in a room in his large house, which is what’s necessary for her to be able to practice enough to his liking, though she occasionally returns back to her apartment for clothes and other possessions. Hinami and Ayato are shocked at Touka’s abrupt return, but nothing they ask can get Touka to stop being vague about where she disappeared to.

“Just don’t worry about it,” she mutters, and Ayato starts.

“ _Aneki_ —”

“I’m _fine_.” Touka can barely accept what she’s agreed to do herself; she can’t imagine what she could tell Hinami or Ayato to make them alright with it.

“I need to go,” she announces quietly, and as Ayato opens his mouth to protest, Hinami puts a hand on his shoulder.

“Bye, Onee-chan,” she says quietly. “Please take care.”

“You too,” Touka replies, not looking at them. She pauses at the door. “By the way, you should pick a new place to live.”

“Why?” Ayato demands.

“Okay,” Hinami agrees.

“You’re late,” Arima says when Touka arrives. And, “What did you tell them?”

“Tell who?” Touka asks back. And then, when he just stares at her: “What do you think I could possibly tell them? That I’m planning dates with the _Reaper_?”

He removes his glasses and begins cleaning him.

“Tell them whatever you want, as long as you don’t let the details of our deal slip.”

“Like I want anyone to know about that in the first place,” she grumbles.

He has her practicing smiles in the mirror, and ways of looking at him in the eyes such that no one else will know that she’s attempted, and is still considering, killing him. His way of operating is all details and subtleties, and they practice until she can strangle every fleck of her fury into something that approximates affection.

Touka possesses some acting skill — no ghoul can survive without it — but it still takes time to polish her mannerisms to Arima’s liking. Finally, though, he prepares the outfit that he wants her to wear on the day he’s planned they’ll be discovered. It’s the moment of truth, and even after all their hard work, Touka still doesn’t seriously think that anyone will believe their ruse.

Arima has found a subtle way to leak her identity, and Touka waits at a park, reading. Less than an hour passes before she becomes aware of someone approaching her.

“Kirishima Touka?” the person asks. “Or should I say — Rabbit?”

Touka looks up, and then down, at their suitcase.

“Who are you?” she sighs, closing her book and standing.

“I’m Mado Akira,” the Dove answers. “The daughter of Mado Kureo.”

Mado makes one motion, and Touka sucks in a breath and leaps back, not fast enough to avoid getting her cheek cut open by a quinque that’s nothing more than a bladed blur.

_Are you serious, Arima? Out of all the Doves in that office —_ this _one?_

No matter how much Mado wants to kill her, Touka can’t strike back. Arima’s instructions specifically included _not_ killing whatever Dove came after her, and Touka grits her teeth.

_The deal,_ she reminds herself, and she flares her kagune and shoots off a couple sparks before fleeing. She continues spattering needles to slow Mado down as she runs, winding her path through the most crowded streets and alleys she can find. She shoves passerby and screams for help. Her breath begins to burn in her throat.

_Any minute now,_ she thinks furiously. But he waits — waits until she’s stumbled and collapsed on the ground, waits until Mado screams out some kind of furious war cry, waits until Mado’s quinque is practically licking Touka’s throat. It’s only then that he shouts.

“Mado!”

His quinque knocks hers aside. Mado whirls.

“A-Arima-san?!” Her voice shakes with astonishment. “What are you — why are you —”

“Stop,” he says. “Stop attacking her.”

Mado’s eyes widen. “W- _what_ —”

“Mado-kun. That is an _order_.”

“ _Why?_ ” she demands. She jabs her quinque against Touka’s chest. “Do you know who this is? This _monster_ killed my _father_ —”

“That person you are calling a ‘monster,’” Arima says, “is someone that I love.”

Mado stares. “Someone…someone that you...that _you_...?”

Arima lifts his quinque until it’s centimeters from Mado’s eyes. The point doesn’t falter.

“ _Stand down_ ,” he repeats in a low voice. A crowd is gathering, but Mado is still too startled to comprehend what’s happening. She looks down at Touka, and Touka tries not to look as shocked as Mado is.

“I can’t believe this,” Mado whispers.

_Me neither,_ Touka thinks. She covers her mouth to stop herself from laughing at the ridiculousness of it all. As if the Reaper could love _anyone_ — as if the love of some dead-eyed murderer could halt decades of hatred and vendettas. This is worse than Kaneki’s tragic heroism.

_Kill me_ , she thinks, staring hard at Mado’s paled face. _You want to. Do it._

But Mado’s quinque drops.

And then Arima’s does, too. He strides forward, as if he’s forgotten it, and helps Touka to her feet, and then embraces her, with a roughness that squeezes the breath from her lungs. She should have been expecting it — it’s right on cue — but it’s the first time she and Arima have had real contact since they made their deal. And it’s the first time in years that anyone has wrapped their arms around her like this, enfolding, secure. Her nose fills with his scent. He’s so tall that her head only meets his chest, and her ears fill with the rumble of his voice saying, “Thank goodness you’re alright.”

She stiffens. His fingers tap her, lightly, and she makes herself raise her arms around him.

Beyond the throb of his heartbeat, Touka hears passerby gasping, and the shutter of cameras.

:::

Before she knows it, Arima’s romance is spreading like fire, across both humans and ghouls.

And, he’s right; people are tired of tragedies. People are so tired of them that they can look straight into her eyes during interviews and see happiness where it doesn’t exist.

“People,” though, probably wouldn’t include Ayato and Hinami. Touka lets their calls and messages go unanswered, and lets the lease expire on her now-empty apartment.

It would just...be too difficult to explain. She doesn’t want to lie to cover up exactly what she’s getting in return for her efforts. She doesn’t want to lie and then hear them argue that she’s overdoing things, that she doesn’t need to do this for the good of everyone else.

These feelings, she thinks dully, are probably similar to the ones that stopped Kaneki from returning to Anteiku.


	3. delusion | plenty for everyone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Too much planning, not enough passion.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you thank you **thank you** again to everyone following along and sending me encouragements for this most crack of ships ///

Kirishima Touka is made known to all the Doves, and put on their “whitelist,” which is something Arima strong-armed through whatever passes for CCG bureaucracy. No ghouls attack Arima, but then, no one would anyway unless they had a death wish.

The whitelist helps, but is ineffective against journalists, and bitter humans, and ghouls that think Touka has “betrayed” their kind. So, other than taking morning walks, she spends most of her time safely tucked away in Arima’s house, with him and his endless machinations.

“Our deal,” Touka reminds him, nursing a mug of coffee. He doesn’t even bother looking at her; he’s scanning a newspaper.

“Not yet,” he mumbles. He’s distracted, and Touka cranes. He’s eyeing the two small columns that comprise their most recent interview. Its proximity to celebrity gossip and a story about a dancing dog is, she imagines, disheartening.

“The story’s spreading, but violent incidents haven’t decreased as much as I expected,” he mutters. “Something must be missing.”

“Of course something’s missing,” Touka snorts. He blinks at her, waits expectantly. She slowly, slowly, sips her mug of coffee.

“Like what?” he asks finally.

“Well, for one thing, most people don’t talk about your story like it’s romantic. They talk about it like we’re something in a zoo. Those journalists probably just enjoy writing about how the Reaper is a huge pervert.”

Touka takes a breath, and another sip. “Secondly, I look like a love-struck idiot and, other than that first hug you gave me, you look like you barely tolerate having me beside you in public. It’s not _true love_ if I’m just saving my own skin by selling it to you.

“Thirdly — and this is probably the biggest problem — you overplan the hell out of _everything._ ” Touka snorts again. “Haven’t you ever had a crush? I guess I wouldn’t be surprised if some emotionless machine like you didn’t have time for anything but killing ghouls. With something like romance...”

Her voice quiets suddenly. He lifts a brow and she makes herself continue.

“Well...it’s all about the little things. Surprises. Doing nice things for each other. With all your planning, there’s no room for...for passion.”

She takes another sip, finishing the remainder of her coffee, and then makes the smile that he’s made her practice so well. “Why don’t you try breaking out that stoic persona of yours, darling?”

She relishes his narrowed eyes, and leaves the room before he can respond.

:::

The next day, while she’s on her walk, she sees a shadow out of her periphery and only just manages to duck before her head is swiped clean off.

_“Whore!”_ the shadow snarls — it’s some kind of ghoul, with a koukaku — swinging it around in _broad daylight_. Their red pupils are contracted to tiny points, shaking and wild with hunger. She unleashes her kagune and barrages them with needles, which they shake off without so much as a wince.

“Selling yourself to the _Reaper_ ,” the ghoul growls, and Touka watches as something steely black writhes across the ghoul’s face. She feels the blood drain from her face. She would normally have the advantage in a fight like this, but —

_They’re kakuja._

She only just manages to jump back from the slash of a wing-like mace.

People begin screaming and fleeing the scene, and Touka notes with some relief that the kakuja doesn’t have their attention focused on anyone but her. She lunges, trying to get a good kick in, trying to get close enough to stab something soft, but the kakuja just swats her, like a fly, and she goes spinning. She cries out in pain as she careens into a wall, and then skids on the ground. In moments she’s in her feet again.

_Run,_ she decides, in panic. To — to the CCG headquarters, maybe — they know her now, even if they only spare her glares, and no conversation — wait, no, no — the gazes that fall on here are too narrow, too eager to spot her mistakes. Mado would love for her to show up with kagune blazing; it would be just the excuse needed to eliminate Touka completely.

Back to Arima’s house, then. It’s a little far, but she can make it. She sucks in a breath and flees, ignoring the sound of car alarms behind her, the sound of buildings and pavement rupturing, the sound of that mace whistling centimeters from her skull, the sound of a child screaming —

_A child._

Touka spins around. Some kid has stumbled on the the sidewalk, and their parent is yelling too, and rushing back to fetch them. But the kakuja is gaining — that enormous spiked wing is flailing and ripping up the cement, heading straight for that little body —

Before she knows it, she’s racing back. She wraps herself around the child and tries to roll out of the way and almost, almost makes it. The kakuja’s claw slices her leg and she screams but holds tighter, not releasing the child until they’re out of range. Then Touka tries to stand — and falls heavily, her leg giving out beneath her.

_No more running, then._

Her heart is throbbing in her throat, and through the fear she feels something else, a little stab of wild ecstasy, a feeling very similar to one that sprang up in her that very first day that she attacked Arima.

_No more running. No more waiting._

She shoves the kid behind her and spreads her arms and her ukaku as far as possible. The kakuja huffs and smiles behind the bulbous mass of black on their face. They launch their koukaku at her, and she barely yells as it runs her through. They drag her toward their mouth, and Touka sucks in a useless breath.

_At least I died trying to protect someone, like you._

Teeth puncture her arm. Her vision blurs, with tears, with agony, and something else.

_I’ll see you soon, Kaneki._

She hears the crunch of bones, and then she feels pushed her out of her own skull, feels her consciousness get drenched in a merciful, dim fog. From a distance she sees her body crumple. She sees the glow of white — white hair — and in that moment knows that it’s Kaneki, finally returning to her. Finally coming to bring her along to wherever he went.

_“Touka,”_ he calls, and Touka reaches, with a happy sigh. Touka. He called her _Touka_.

The kakuja’s teeth hold her back, and Kaneki raises a sword and breaks each fang. The kakuja releases her, and the ground is hard — it jars her body, sends shocks through the fog. Kaneki rolls her into his arms.

_“Touka,”_ she hears, and Touka shakes. The fog is thinning. Pain is reaching her, and it’s everywhere.

_“Touka, are you alright?”_

_It — it hurts —_

_“I know. Touka, please hang in there.”_

_Kaneki, it hurts. It — it really — p-please —_

_“Touka, here.”_

Kaneki lifts her close, presses his flesh against her mouth, and it’s so soft and sweet-smelling and _heavenly_ — her chattering teeth sink and she tightens her arms around his neck as she swallows, desperately, hungrily. With every gulp, the pain lancing across her body fades, even as the anguish in her chest swells, so big that it feels like it’s going to snap each of her ribs.

_I’m so stupid._

Of course it isn’t Kaneki.

_I’m so, so stupid._

She tastes tears alongside Arima’s blood, and hears the snap of cameras firing. She smashes her face into his overcoat to hide it from the lenses.

“It’s alright,” Arima says, brushing her hair from her face. “Everything’s fine now.”

He lifts her up, and she can’t suppress the impulsive to grab him and keep herself from falling. As he stands, he adjusts her, carefully, and moves his mouth close to her ear. He whispers.

“How’s this for passion, darling?”

Touka clutching him, her face smeared with blood and tears — Arima’s glasses askew as he presses his forehead to hers —

This is the subject of the photo that makes the front page.


	4. rupture | one step backward and one step backward

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Why don't you tell me what's troubling you?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you again to all those following along, and to those leaving both kind words and incredulous “H-HOW AM I SHIPPING THIS” ones :’D

Human blood can’t heal everything. Touka is wearing a cast that a human doctor insisted upon. And, she is furious.

“ _You’re_ responsible for that kakuja? People could have _died!_ ”

“It wouldn’t have happened,” Arima argues, with his usual stoicism. “I was watching carefully.”

“Oh, so, you were _watching carefully_ when that kakuja almost tore that child in half, huh?”

“Yes,” he says. “And it was a good touch, for you to save them.”

“A — a good _touch_ —” She winces as she tries to clench her cast-covered hand.

“Yes. The child was a human. Today everyone at the office wanted me to pass their congratulations and thanks to you. So,” he concludes, “congratulations. And thank you. And, you were right.”

“Right about what? That you’re a _sadist_?”

“You’re right that I over-planned things. It was valuable to have something candid.”

“Well, you’re welcome!” Touka snaps, waving her cast in his face. “You’re welcome for my candidly broken bones. Arima, how can this possibly count as _not_ planning something? Not to mention that this is the _second time_ that your plans have conveniently involved me getting attacked. Next time you want drama, why don’t you put _yourself_ in the line of fire?”

He gives her a strange look.

“Well?” she demands.

“I…will consider it,” he answers finally.

“Please do, Arima-san. And, by the way, just so you know, for the future: when I said ‘romance has surprises,’ what I meant were things like gifts and spontaneous outings. Not _kakuja attacks that could have killed me!_ ”

He whisks off his glasses, and begins cleaning them in a handkerchief, fingers pinching hard. This is something she’s seen him only do once or twice, when he gets _really_ irritated. She straightens, ready to defend herself.

“That ghoul couldn’t have killed you,” he says in a low voice. “I know your ability, and I only goaded a ghoul that you could defeat. The only reason you didn’t is because, at the last moment, you decided to die.”

She wasn’t prepared for that line. Touka stiffens.

“I — I didn’t —”

“You did.” Arima sighs; he starts to pace the room, but stops mid-step, and approaches her.

“We’re in this together,” he says. “Our plan —”

“ _Your_ plan!”

“Our _deal_ won’t work if you die. Even if we aren’t actually lovers, we’re partners, and we’re in this together. So,” he says, putting his glasses back on, “why don’t you tell me what’s troubling you? I’ll do my best to fix it for you.”

He sits down in a chair at the table, and gestures for her to sit as well.

She doesn’t.

“You can’t fix it.” She’s blinking rapidly; she makes herself meet his gaze. “You can believe in that stupid ’world peace’ dream of yours, but no matter what happens, my own world is going to continue being as broken as it was the day that you ruined it. You — y-you took all the days that I would ever have with him. And there’s nothing you can do to fix that. _Nothing._ ”

They’re sharp words. She waits for him to snap back, to protest, to flare. Instead, he looks away. After some time, he sighs.

“I know there are certain things that can’t be fixed,” he says. He hesitates then — for just a second — and the Reaper _never_ hesitates, but she sees it clear as day. His fingers tap against the table and his gaze flits up and to the left, and it’s the first time she sees him without words already loaded in his mouth like bullets.

“It’s true that there are things that can’t be fixed, but the wreckage doesn’t need to fill up your entire life. You deserve more than the quick end you’re looking for.”

His gaze returns back to hers.

“Kirishima-san,” he says. “You’re beautiful, and strong, and intelligent. The world that we’ll make after our plans are over is one that you belong in, more than anyone else.”

He watches her for a response, but she is too stunned to do anything but stare. That the Reaper is capable of words like these is shocking at least, and disturbing at best. Where was this sentiment when he was murdering Kaneki?

“You’re full of shit,” she says finally. “And I’m sick of listening to you.”

Arima nods, like he expected nothing less. He retrieves his coat, and starts for the hallway. Touka looks away and waits for his footsteps to reach his room; but they don’t. She glances back toward him, and sees that Arima has halted, at the hallway entrance. He takes a breath, and then looks back at her.

“I’m sorry you were hurt,” he says softly. “But I promise that this will be the last time you’ll ever be injured. And until you’re fully healed, we can ease up on our public appearances.”

He makes a slight bow in farewell, and walks out, this time for good. She watches his departure far longer than she wants to.

_Kirishima-san, you’re beautiful._

Manipulative bastard.

_The world that we’ll make after our plans are over is one that you belong in, more than anyone else._

As if there’s anywhere that she could belong, anymore.

Her gaze falls on the newspaper, and she picks it up. Tears blur her vision, and blur the photo, and this way, it almost, _almost_ looks like it’s Kaneki holding her.

_It’s not,_ Touka makes herself think. _It’s not him._

She’s so stupid. She tries to make herself go further. _I didn’t see Kaneki. It wasn’t Kaneki. Because Kaneki...Kaneki is never..._

She almost hears her heart crack. She sucks in a breath and feels all the pieces of it jostling, stabbing her lungs. She can’t finish.

_Quick,_ she thinks. Think of something happy. Something nice. Anything.

_Kirishima-san, you’re beautiful._

Manipulative. _Bastard._

Not even Kaneki had ever said something like that to her.

And now he never would.

She slaps the newspaper on the table, and braces her cast on it, and uses her free hand to tear the article in half.

 


	5. donations | me, in handfuls, heaved

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tonight: an exclusive interview with the woman beloved to the CCG Reaper!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you thank you again to everyone taking the time to follow along, and even to leave kind messages. it’s more than i expected for such a silly crackship :’)
> 
> this chapter has no content warnings.
> 
> i hope you’re having a good day, & enjoy!

“Good morning, Kirishima-san! We’re so glad to have you back today. How are you? The cast is off, I see!”

“I’m doing very well, thank you. And, ah...yes...the cast is off.” Touka pulls back the sleeve from her arm, showing the unmarred skin. “We ghouls heal quite fast. If given the right nutrients.”

“Aha, so we might have Arima-san to thank, it seems?”

Touka doesn’t need to fake her face turning red. “He’s certainly to thank for something,” she mutters, and she must sound embarrassed, because the interviewer waves her hand reassuringly.

“Just kidding, just kidding. In this case I know that you must mean the donations.”

“Donations?” Touka echoes, and the interviewer’s mouth opens into a perfect “O.”

“Oh, my, I forgot! This was going to be a surprise, wasn’t it?”

Touka’s stomach churns. She is starting to get sick of surprises.

But the surprise turns out to be an older human woman who walks out from backstage and introduces herself as the director of a hospital. She presents Touka with an envelope. Touka withdraws a paper from it, and unfolds it, and watches in surprise as the paper falls open — and open — and open — unfolding over and over onto her lap, spilling onto the floor.

“W-what is this?” Touka asks.

“Names,” the director answers. “These are the names of patients at my hospital that have elected to donate their bodies upon death to a brand new shelter for ghouls that we are building in the 20th Ward. It will be in the place that was once called Anteiku.”

“I...” Touka is stunned. Before she can stop herself, she breaks away from her soft, polite voice to say, “Are you _serious?”_

The women on stage with her, and the audience, laugh. Touka flushes deeply.

“I — I mean — I’m sorry, I’m just —” She cuts herself off, and takes a breath.

“What I mean,” she begins again, “is...thank you. Thank you, so much. I just...I never thought that humans would —”

No, that doesn’t sound right either. She snaps her mouth shut, and is, thankfully, saved from speaking again by the hospital director.

“Kirishima-san, thank _you_.” Still seated in a chair beside her, the director bows deeply. “Last week, you saved my grandson, at risk to your own life. You — and Arima-san too, of course — have proven that it’s possible to see beyond the things that we’ve believed and feared of each other. You both have started the work that needs to be done to mend relations between everyone in this city, and it’s the least I can do to aid you, and those like you.”

The audience claps, and the director straightens and faces them.

“Please,” the director says. “If any of you are also interested in donating, I have brought the necessary forms. Currently, they are only valid for registered patients of the the 20th Ward Hospital, but we are working to expand...”

The director continues on with details that Touka can no longer parse over the astonishment filling her body.

Humans donating their bodies? Humans building a ghoul shelter?

Is this really happening?

How is this possible?

Arima’s ridiculous plan...is _working._

“Kirishima-san?” the interviewer calls, and Touka starts.

“A-ah — I’m sorry — I’m still...I just...” She doesn’t remember what Arima wanted her to say at a time like this. Maybe she should just go with the truth. “To be honest, Director-san, this...this all is still...so unbelievable. This...means so much...more than words can describe.”

She hesitates, and then bows. “Thank you, thank you so much. That there would be such an incredible outpouring of support...”

Everyone is smiling at her so kindly. Touka hands fist in her lap.

“You know...ever since I was a child...all I wanted was just to live, like everyone else. I never thought it would be possible. I never imagined it would happen in my lifetime. But now...”

She’s at loss. The interviewer puts a hand on Touka’s shoulder.

“Those are such beautiful words, Kirishima-san. I — I have to admit — until I had the privilege of meeting you here on this show...well. I’d always been terrified of ghouls — as if, at any moment, one would just reach from beneath my bed at night, like a monster!”

Everyone laughs. Touka finds herself cracking a smile. Maybe — maybe — just maybe, this whole thing might actually work.

“You know, I was a little similar. I thought humans would never understand. Until I met Ka —”

Her heart skips a beat.

_FUCK._

“…’Ka?’” the interviewer echoes, and Touka pretends to start coughing.

“S-sorry, could I have some water?”

“Of course! It’s on the table right beside you. Please help yourself.”

“Thank you. ...um...as I was saying. I felt the same, until I met” — Touka takes a breath — “Kishou. He...he was so kind to me...so much kinder than anyone I’ve ever met.”

Her honest words earlier had been so easy to say. But saying these ones now feels like — like vomiting up sundaes and rice balls and hamburger steaks.

_Shit._

Her eyes begin to fill with tears. The director of a hospital just admitted that she’s helping to provide food for possibly hundreds of ghouls, but now the only thing Touka can think of is Anteiku being destroyed, and Kaneki’s body bleeding in the rubble, and —

_Shit!_

— and his smile as he made his first latte, and his sad gaze as he saved her in Aogiri —

_SHIT!_

Why is it that she needs to lose her composure _now_?

“I-I’m…I’m sorry...I, um...”

“No, no, please, take your time, Kirishima-san. Here, please take some tissues.”

“Th-thank you...”

“Of course! It’s clear this all means quite a lot to you. Please don’t overexert yourself. This interview is meant to be fun, you know? Let’s lighten things up a bit,” the interviewer suggests, and Touka straightens hastily.

“Y-yes — please — let’s.”

“Yes! Alright, to start…maybe you can tell us some of the things that you and CCG’s infamous investigator do together?”

“Oh, um...what we...do?”

“Yes! It must be hard, isn’t it? For a ghoul and a human to have a relationship? There’s the physiological differences, of course...but do you feel like you two have the same habits and problems as any other couple?”

“I...um, yes, of course we...um.”

“Maybe...maybe you can talk about something fun that you two did recently?”

“O-oh, sure...we...well...”

:::

Touka lifts the remote and shuts the television off.

The silence stretches, fills up like a balloon in her chest. Touka doesn’t look at him. This is the the first huge mistake that she’s made in their whole ruse. The slip of Kaneki’s name. The total absence of fluffy domestic activities to talk about.

Deals and cooperation and “you’re beautiful” and world peace and ghoul shelters are all fine and good, but how is it not obvious to everyone watching her on screen that their whole relationship is a fucking joke?

And what if the Reaper decides that she isn’t going to be able to keep up with his perfect story? She’s seen what he does to his enemies. She’s useless to him if she can’t be his flawless trophy.

He’s going to be furious with her any moment now. She decides to strike first.

“What was I supposed to say?” she demands. “That the only thing I’ve ever done with you is starve in a dungeon while you rambled on and on about some old guitar case? That the only gifts you’ve ever given me is an investigator that wanted to kill me, and a kakuja that wanted to kill me? There’s nothing in your notes about a question like this. You didn’t coach me at all.”

“That’s true,” Arima agrees.

Touka tenses, waiting for more.

“It’s your fault,” she asserts, when he remains silent.

“I apologize,” he says. “It looks like it was an uncomfortable experience for you.”

She makes herself look up at him, finally, and sees only that he is continuing to stare at the blank television screen. Thinking.

“Let’s go,” he says after a moment.

“Where?” she asks sharply. An abandoned warehouse somewhere? Some dungeon in the CCG headquarters?

He shrugs. “Somewhere we can find you something to talk about.”


	6. polarities | gristle in my teeth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cafe dates.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> new chapter! once again, thanks so much for reading/following along. :’)
> 
> this story has become way longer than the quick and dirty angstfest it was originally intended to be, and the semi-unfortunate consequence of that is that i want it to actually have some kind of…like…plot. u////u so, i’m going to be taking a break for a couple weeks to sort everything out.
> 
> for now, i hope you’re having a good day! and, enjoy.

Fortunately, the interview doesn’t result in the complete unraveling of their ruse. Unfortunately, what it _does_ cause is something even more annoying: the accumulation of more people, both journalists and random passerby, who want to talk to her.

“Maybe it would do you good to chat with someone,” Arima remarks.

“Don’t bother wasting your breath,” Touka tells him. “There’s no cameras or eavesdroppers anywhere.”

“I’m not saying it merely to be kind. You haven’t spoken to your own family in weeks.”

“You want me to talk to them, and risk outing them? No thanks. It’s enough that the Reaper knows their identities. I don’t need the rest of the city chasing them down for interviews too.”

The journalists are incessant enough that she stops walking by herself in the mornings, and only leaves the house with Arima, whose presence is intimidating enough to prevent people from bothering her.

For two weeks, they spend his free time outside in public until 18:00, which is the cutoff point for Arima to go home and “work,” or whatever it is that he does in his office.

And soon, Touka has an answer for the next time someone probes her about what she and Arima do together: they go to cafes. _Lots_ of them.

Well, what else can they do? They try out one zoo and one aquarium, and end up making one complete circuit before leaving without having said one word to each other the entire time.

“Amusement park?” Arima asks one day, and Touka wrinkles her nose, and Arima shrugs. “Cafe it is, then.”

_If our plan works after all,_ Touka thinks sullenly, _this is going to be the rest of my life._

Going from one cafe to the other. Trying to ignore the fact that everyone around them is watching every move they make. Getting better at things that she doesn’t care about, like being interviewed, and understanding Arima’s body language.

She knows, for example, that he is just as bored as she is: his gaze is narrower than usual, and slanting off toward the window. The One-Eyed Owl has been suspiciously absent recently, and he’s probably thinking of ways to shake them out. He picks up his coffee, and she notes that it’s with his left hand — meaning that moving his dominant right arm still bothers the wounds she’s bitten into his shoulder.

What’s worse than understanding Arima, though, is that Arima is getting better at reading _her_ mannerisms.

“Is everything alright?” he asks, for the third time that day.

And Touka replies the way she has every other time: “Yes.”

Arima starts cleaning his glasses. Touka makes a practiced smile and brushes her hair behind her left ear.

“Hurry up, Arima. Do something romantic,” she says, in a voice too sharp for her expression. For all that they’ve been out and about almost nonstop recently, she still doesn’t have anything more interesting to talk about other than “we go places, and sit, and do nothing.”

He puts his glasses back on and eyes her. “I selected the cafe. It’s your turn to do something.”

Touka leans back in her chair.

“You selected the cafe, but it’s the worst one that we’ve been to yet,” she grumbles, whirling the contents of her cup around. “Only humans would be satisfied drinking this.”

“If this coffee is so bad that only humans would drink it,” Arima says, “then why is this cafe filled with ghouls?”

Touka blinks. “What? It is not.”

He doesn’t say anything, just tears open a sugar packet and stirs the contents into his cup.

Touka glances around. People’s faces turn forward and away from her, stiffly, as her eyes sweep the room. This cafe is in an unfamiliar ward, so she isn’t surprised not to see anyone she recognizes. But every person she sees seems to have a drink tainted with milk or syrups, and a plate with some kind of pastry.

She mentions this after they leave the cafe, and Arima nods.

“That’s your first hint,” he explains. “Even in a human cafe, not everyone bothers to get food _and_ a drink.”

That makes sense, she thinks, grudgingly. That definitely wouldn’t match the diversity of what she remembers people ordering at Anteiku. But it doesn’t explain everything.

“How else could you tell?” she presses.

“The usual signs.”

“Like what?”

He doesn’t answer. They are walking, side-by-side, aimless, and proceed down a narrow sidestreet, through which they reach a small plaza. Then Arima slows, and stops, and watches the people eating at tables set out in the sunlight.

“There,” he says finally.

“Where?”

“The person at the shaded table, and the child.”

“The ones eating ice cream?”

“Pretending to eat it,” he corrects. “The parent is swallowing down each bite, or else chewing it, even though it’s plain ice cream. And the child…children that young often lick ice cream and eat messily, but this one’s face is completely clean. No napkins. No fighting over the spoon.”

The more Touka watches, the more obvious it seems. Ice cream drips onto their fingers and they wipe it away instead of licking. She makes mental notes to keep this behavior in mind for the future.

The parent and child are looking incredibly uneasy, so Touka says, “Let’s go,” and they continue heading back to his house. The conversation stays with her, though, and the next time they’re out on a walk together, Touka nods at a businessman having lunch at a park bench. Arima follows her gaze.

“Human,” he says, almost instantly. Touka frowns, and he says, “Look at their suit pocket. It’s filled with candy wrappers.”

“A ghoul could do that,” Touka mutters.

“That’s true,” he allows. But his agreement is unsatisfying.

They walk a little further. Touka spots a high schooler walking a dog and she gestures at them. Arima watches, and rather than answering, he says, “What do you think?”

She watches. Thinks.

“Human,” she decides finally.

“Wrong,” he says instantly, and her face gets hot.

“Why?” she demands.

“The dog.”

“So? What about it? What does the dog have to do with anything?”

“Have you ever seen a fatter dog?” Arima asks back. “That dog eats all the human food that its owner slides underneath the table to it.”

They watch as the dog trots past them, tongue lolling, stomach swaying perilously close to the ground.

Touka huffs. As expected of the CCG genius, she supposes.

The next day she tries again. Every time she says “ghoul,” Arima responds “Wrong” and lists food stains on clothing, licking lips, eyes lingering on restaurant signs. Every time she says “Human,” Arima responds “Wrong” and lists chewing motions, dental quality, paranoid glances.

As frustrating as it is, it’s also terrifying. Arima’s perception suits his reputation as the Reaper; but, if he understands everyone around them so thoroughly, it’s a wonder why he hasn’t already single-handedly eliminated every ghoul in the city.

It’s almost time to head back to Arima’s house. She’d been hoping to get at least one human or ghoul properly identified today, and in frustration Touka points at a random person and bursts, “Human!”

Arima glances over. Pauses.

“Correct.”

“R-really?!” Despite herself, she feels delighted.

Until she looks at the person more carefully.

“But...how are they human? They look a little uneasy...there’s no food stains...they only have one drink, and it’s a coffee.”

“Those are all things humans can do,” Arima points out.

“Well, yes. So…so how is it that you were able to...” Touka stares hard at the person until they notice and quickly leave. She sighs.

“Unbelievable,” she mutters.

“Yes,” he says, and something about his tone when he says it is different, something about it rings strangely, and Touka frowns, and thinks, and thinks, and then it dawns on her.

Her head snaps toward Arima with shock.

“You…” She’s too stunned to finish.

_You have been lying the entire fucking time._

“Not the entire time,” he admits, as if he knows exactly what she’s thinking. “But for the majority of it, yes.”

Touka stares.

“I thought the dog would give me away,” he says, and he says it with the slightest snort, and the slightest tip of his head sideways, and though she has not yet seen him do either of these things before she understands their coordination as an expression of amusement.

The Reaper, _amused_.

The Reaper, pulling an extended _prank_.

She’d allowed the Reaper’s reputation as a genius to completely eclipse the possibility that he might also be some kind of ridiculous moron.

She slaps her hand over her mouth, sharp, the same way she might slap a bug bite, or a sudden cut. Arima blinks at her, and she waves him away furiously and turns around so that he doesn’t see her face.

The corners of her lips have pulled apart, and up, so tight and fast that the sensation is painful. Something in her chest froths, and quakes upward, and when it finally escapes her mouth it sounds more like a harsh cough than what it actually is: a laugh.

She’s _laughing._

Because of _Arima._

This isn’t right. Kaneki’s murderer shouldn’t be making her laugh. With some horror she realizes that she can’t even remember the last time she thought of Kaneki, it might have been a whole _week_ already, a week of looking out across the city and being so consumed by whether people were humans or ghouls that she’d completely forgotten Kaneki’s kind smile and kind words and all the days they’d made coffee together.

“Touka?” Arima calls, and it takes all her effort to not shove him, to not scream.

_Don’t call me that. Don’t talk to me. Don’t look at me. Don’t be near me or close to me when he can’t!_

People are slowing around them. People are starting to look.

_Our deal. The shelter. The donations. Our deal. Our deal._

She takes deep breaths to steady her throat, her vision.

“Go home,” Touka says quietly.

“Tou —”

_“Go. Home.”_

Her glare, as usual, can’t make a dent in his stone expression. But, he glances at his watch.

“Very well,” he says. “It’s time for me to resume work anyway, so I’ll be leaving first. Please take care on your way home.”

Touka leaves before he finishes speaking, walking quickly, keeping her gaze skyward.

She can’t do this. She can’t do this. It hurts too much.

_Our deal. The shelter. The donations. Our deal. Our deal._

She hasn’t even entertained thoughts of killing Arima for weeks. She’d given up on it, she realizes. She’d stopped, too, her idle daydreams of what it might feel like to not feel anything.

And today, he made her laugh.

_Our deal. The shelter. The donations. Our deal. Our deal. Kaneki —_

She can’t go back to his house. Not yet. She just needs — a little time — just a little time to not be part of his romance — just a little time to be _herself._

Touka waits until she’s sure she can meet people’s eyes with composure, and then strides into the first cafe she sees, and orders an espresso. Fortunately, the place is small, and mostly empty; if the server recognizes her, they don’t show it, and Touka takes a seat near the back of the cafe near a window whose view is obscured with vines and various knick-knacks. She receives her drink, and almost immediately after, to her frustration, someone comes and sits across the table from her. Touka doesn’t even bother looking at them.

“Sorry,” she says, not bothering to sweeten her voice. “I don’t do interviews without prior scheduling. Call first.”

“I’ve _tried_ calling you.” The person’s voice is an angry mutter. “I’ve been calling your own phone. But somehow I haven’t been able to get through even once, despite the fact that I’m your brother.”


	7. sides | thicker than blood

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Maintaining the ruse.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thaanks to anyone who was waiting for so long for a continuation! this is my first time posting up a story as i’m writing it...i’m doing my best to make it all coherent and entertaining, and appreciate you all for reading :) i’m not sure that i’ll be able to get back on a normal schedule for this, but here’s something to at least kill last chapter’s cliffhanger.
> 
> hope you're having a good day; enjoy!

“Ayato!” Her gasp turns into a low hiss. “What are you _doing_ here?”

“Nice to see you too, Aneki,” Ayato mutters.

“Get _out._ ” Touka glances back and forth, trying to see if anyone is giving them special attention, or taking notes. “No one knows I have a brother. If people find out —”

“Then what? Is the Reaper gonna kill me?”

“No, idiot! If he wanted to kill you, he would have done it already.”

“Oh, yeah?” Ayato leans back in his chair and crosses his arms. “And how do you know that?”

“He knew where you and Hinami lived weeks ago, when this all started.”

Ayato's expression is darkening. “So he’s keeping me and Hina hostage, huh? That’s why you’re doing this whole stupid thing?”

“No — _no_.”

“Then he said he’d kill you if you didn’t stay?”

“That’s — not exactly —”

“Then why?” Ayato hisses. “Aneki, you can fool all these stupid fucking humans on their dumb television shows, but it’s pretty clear to everyone who matters that you’re nothing more than Arima’s new walking, talking quinque. Speaking of quinques, I was talking to Yomo-san and —”

“Ayato, _shut up._ ”

Ayato’s mouth snaps shut, into a scowl. Touka feels her face redden, and scans the cafe again, to make ensure they still have privacy. Then she leans forward.

If Ayato is this mad now, she doubts he’d be happy to know the real reason for all of this.

This is it.

She lowers her voice, and makes it as hard as it had been when she’d taught him how to hunt, how to fight, how to use his fledgling kagune.

“Stop messing around. I am fine. Arima and I have a relationship. A _real relationship_ that doesn’t involve blackmail, or threats, or — or living hostages. I know it must seem stupid to you, but it doesn’t to anyone else. Humans are donating their bodies now. Building shelters.”

“They’re making us live in their human world,” Ayato growls.

“We've always lived in their world,” Touka corrects. “But now they're making space. And I prefer that to whatever hell Aogiri is trying to make.”

“Well, I don’t!” Ayato snaps. “I don’t prefer it if it means that you’re being crushed so hard under that filthy human’s thumb that you can’t say anything that isn't the script he stuffed down your throat.”

“Ayato —”

“Listen, Aneki,” he interrupts. “I know I messed up before. I know — I know that I really hurt you, before. But it won’t happen again. You're my sister, and I'm going to protect you.”

He looks so earnest. She's taken aback. And touched. And irritated.

“I appreciate it,” she says. “But I don't need your help. Go home. Make sure Hinami is safe. Those are the things you can do if you really want to help me. Okay?”

His fist clenches on the table.

“Okay?” she demands again.

He forces a noise between his teeth that sounds passably like “Fine.”

For some reason, then, she assumes that they’re going to talk. About — “normal” things — how they’re doing, maybe, or what they’ve up to, for fun. She’s been forcing him away from her, but now that he’s here, she can’t help it — her chest aches for company — _real_ company. Her arm is twitching, ready to wave a barista over to order coffee for him — so he can have something to drink — so that she can make certain he’s doing alright. So that she can make another attempt at being a proper sister to him.

But the next thing Ayato does is stand, so sharply that his chair screeches across the floor.

“W-wait,” Touka gasps. “Ayato, don’t —”

_Don’t go._

The cafe door smacks into its frame.

:::

Alone again.

She should have picked up his calls. She should have talked with him about the deal, even if she knew he wouldn’t agree. She should have just been honest. She should have been a better sister. She should have chased harder after him when he started getting wrapped up in things. She should have…she should have…

She is so fucking terrible at this.

No wonder Kaneki left and never came back.

Her coffee tastes as bad as human food. Touka presses her palms against her eyes, and breathes.

So much for being herself for a while. She is intolerable, and sad, and selfish. The only fucking relationship she can hold together is the one that isn’t real.

She stands, and trudges out, abandoning her coffee.

At least as Arima’s quinque girlfriend she’s useful to somebody.


	8. spar | holding breadth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sparring can help take your mind off things.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> previous chapter was kinda short, so here's another :)

She takes the long way to Arima’s house, to avoid cameramen that may be hiding near its front. By now the sun has set, and she’s surprised to see that the light in the hallway beyond the back door is open. Arima is conservative about power usage; is he not in his office, for once? She peers around after she enters, and, after not seeing him, flicks the light off.

Touka starts toward her room. Her corridor is dark, and even from here she can tell it’s chilly. If she tries going to bed now, she’s just going to lie and stew in her thoughts for hours.

In the quiet, she can hear Arima’s muffled voice and pacing, coming from his office.

It’s the first time she’s been home after him. Maybe she should tell him she’s returned, just so that he doesn’t get surprised and think she’s an intruder and attack her or something. She walks back.

The only time she’s visited his office is when he was giving he a tour of his house. It still feels like she’s trespassing into someplace secret when she raps on the door.

Inside the room, Arima stops talking. There’s silence, and then Touka hears, “I need to leave, but I’ll do it. Let’s discuss tomorrow morning at the office.”

“It’s alright,” Touka says, opening the door and peeking in. “You can keep working, I just wanted to tell you that I’m —”

She cut herself off, and stares.

“What are you _doing_?” she asks, and Arima looks down at her and slips his phone into his pocket.

“Kirishima-san,” he says. He’s standing on the office’s big conference table, as if it’s the most natural thing in the world. “Welcome back.”

“Is there something wrong with the floor?” Touka asks, retreating uneasily.

“No,” he replies. “Did you enjoy your walk?”

_No. Not at all._

Touka frowns. “Explain first why you’re on the table.”

He adjusts his glasses. “I like it.”

First jokes, and now this. Something must show on her face because Arima waves his hand at her, indicating, _Come up here_ , and Touka grimaces, but then thinks, _Why not?_

She climbs onto the table.

It feels exactly what she imagined standing on a table would feel like.

“Why do you even have a table this huge,” she mutters, walking along the length of it.

“I used to have meetings here, with my squad. My previous squad, I should say.”

Touka hasn’t seen anyone visit him even once. “You got reassigned or something?”

“They all died.”

She probably should offer condolences, but somehow can’t quite bring herself to apologize for the death of a bunch of Doves, much less ones headed up by the Reaper.

“That’s too bad,” she offers, as a sort of halfway.

“I’m going to kill the one who did it,” he replies, like he is telling her his plans for dinner.

“Since you didn't answer my question earlier,” he continues, “I’ll assume that you're still feeling unwell. Fortunately, another useful aspect of being on this table is that it's a good setting for sparring. Would you like to have a round with me?”

Touka blinks, and then snorts. “One joke from you is enough for today.”

“I’m serious. It can help take your mind off whatever’s worrying you.” As if to prove it, he begins unbuttoning his sleeve cuffs, and tugs them up a bit. Then he glances at her, and Touka finds the corner of her tipping up. She turns and faces him straight on.

“Alright. Sure.” Knocking the Reaper around does seem like it would be pretty fun, especially given her current mood. She straightens her arm out and begins to stretch it out.

“No kagune,” he says, and Touka makes a pouting expression.

“Fine,” she says, switching arms. “So long as you don't use the corpses of the people you've murdered.”

“Of course.” He stretches out a bit as well, and then waits as she gives out a few experimental kicks.

“Whenever you're ready,” he says, and Touka lunges.

She tries a couple punches at first — relatively slow — just to get a feel for him. He dodges each one, easily, and she quickens, and still manages to hit nothing but strands of his hair. Frustrated, she aims a kick at him, and he blocks her ankle with one wrist and pushes it back at her without budging a centimeter.

Soon it becomes apparent why someone like Arima would consider a long table to be “a good setting for sparring.” It’s perfectly flat — the only directions available are forward and back — the only thing to focus on is interaction, and not losing ground. Soon he stops dodging her and just starts catching her punches, her knuckles clapping squarely into the center of his palms no matter what angle she tries for. She speeds up even more, and even when she tries the most random combinations she can think of, even when she feels the muscles of her eyes constrict and reveal her kakugan, she can’t break through.

Her breathing is catching. This is impossible. Are all her intentions so transparent? Or is he a mind reader?

She sinks her weight into her hits and his elbows bends to absorb the impact. The threat of digging her heel into his crotch finally makes him yield a step back, and the instant he does, Touka stops, panting.

“You’re mocking me,” she huffs.

“I’m not,” Arima says. “But it’s true I’m taking it easy on you.”

“Well, don’t!” she snarls, and he says, “Understood.”

His next movement is so fast that she doesn’t see it until the tips of his nails are a centimeter from her eye. She gasps and leaps away but he just strikes at her again, fluid, fingers stabbing and stopping millimeters from the crook of her chin and throat. Then he moves again, aiming for her chest, her belly, her ears.

He doesn’t touch her — but his every motion is a blur and she can’t convince her body not to panic. She raises her arms desperately to block him and he just grabs them and tears her grip loose. She’s fleeing backward, backward, backward, and suddenly he lashes out — _contact_ — he’s grabbed her hands. He yanks her forward.

Touka looks up at him, shaking, and then glances behind her. Her heels are at the edge of the table. She had stepped right off of it, and would have fallen if he hadn’t caught her.

He didn’t hit her even once, but her legs are wobbling.

_Unbelievable._

She’d attacked the Reaper before, but it was nothing like this. This time, there had been absolutely nothing she could do. He might as well have been a solid wall. Or a tidal wave.

How is it possible that someone like this actually exists?

“Are you alright?” Arima asks, and Touka jumps. Belatedly, she realizes that her fingers are still laced with his. They’re warm, and she drops them like they’re on fire.

“You’re trembling,” he notes.

“I-I’m — I’m fine.” Except for the fact that her heart is pounding so hard that she feels dizzy.

And that he can tell. “I apologize if I scared you.”

“I’m not _scared_ ,” she snaps, before she can stop herself.

“Then what?” he asks, and she turns away. She jumps down from the table, stalling, mind racing.

“I…saw my brother today,” she tells him, with as firm as voice as she can muster. “And he’s…really mad about…all this. So…so if he attacks you, promise me that you won’t…you know. Do anything.”

“Of course. I promise.” He steps down from the table too. “One Kirishima is enough for me.”

Her face heats. “That’s — that’s not what I —”

“I know.” He snorts, slightly; tips his head, slightly. He heads for the office door. “It’s late. Goodnight, Kirishima-san.”

“Y-yeah — sure. Bye.”

“I hope you get some rest. I have someone to meet tomorrow morning, so I’ll see you in the evening.”

“…okay. Yeah. See you then.”

That night, her room is dark, but slowly warming. She tries to sleep, and instead just lies, and stews in her thoughts for hours.

:::

 _Kirishima-san_ , she hears, very quietly, in the house’s creaks and groans and sibilances. _Kirishima-san, you’re beautiful._

_One Kirishima is enough for me._

_I’ll see you tomorrow._

:::

 _Stop_ , she thinks.

 _Stop what?_ she asks.

She can’t even bring herself to think it.


	9. fractions | fasting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Food and fighting.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks to anyone following along, and special thanks again to those taking the time to send encouragements :’) also also thanks to the folks that are like “WHY??? AM I SHIPPING THIS HUGE AGE DIFFERENCE PAIRING WHERE THE CHARACTERS HAVE NEVER EVEN MET iN CANON????” :’D

So she’s getting more comfortable with Arima. So what? It’s only expected that after living with him for a couple months he’d naturally become less insufferable, despite her best efforts.

She spends the next few days arranging and preparing for various interviews. She re-packages the whole humans-ghouls-dog story, and is pleased when elicits it the right kind of laughter.

“I suppose the Reaper isn’t such a scary guy after all,” one journalist chuckles over the phone, and Touka makes a laugh back.

“Don’t worry,” she assures, lying down on the couch and stretching her legs. “He’s terrifying, but only if you happen to be fighting him.”

“Oh, no, Touka-chan! Is it possible that there’s trouble in paradise?”

_Touka-chan._ She stares up at the ceiling. It’s cutesy, and yet sounds so impersonal.

_I’m really becoming a personality now._

“What relationship doesn’t have its ups and downs?” Touka asks, in her sweet Touka-chan voice. “I’d be more worried if everything was perfect.”

:::

The back door opens. Touka starts, and scrambles — but can't put everything away in time. She swallows up her bite and stares as Arima enters. His eyes fall on her, and on the food that she is eating straight from one of the paper packages she’s retrieved from the fridge.

“I'm home,” he says.

“...welcome back,” Touka mumbles.

He goes to hang up his overcoat.

Arima has been the one providing her with food that is ethically sourced enough for the public, but this is the first time that he's caught her eating it. To avoid scrutiny and disgust, she eats when she knows that he won't be home, and makes no comment when the refrigerator is stocked again at the end of each week.

“You're back early,” she remarks when he returns to the kitchen, and he nods.

“I've been thinking,” he replies. “We should spend some more time sparring.”

He sets a plastic bag down on the counter and begins to pull things out of it: a bottle of tea, a noodle meal set, a couple riceballs.

“Sparring? Why?” Touka asks. Arima walks toward her, and she stiffens; but he’s only withdrawing chopsticks from the drawer she's standing in front of. He takes a seat at the opposite side of the counter, and she coughs.

“This isn’t because I mentioned fighting in the interviews the other day, is it?”

“No,” he replies. “I don’t bother listening to those.”

“You don’t?” That’s a surprise. “What if I make another mistake?”

“I trust you’re handling them just fine. Itadakimasu.” He pries the lid off the noodle set.

“Th-then,” Touka says, as he eats, “you just want to beat me up again? I didn't think you were _that_ much of a sadist.”

“I didn't beat you up. You did fine. I’m not,” he says, as her mouth opens, “mocking you. It’s obvious to me that you’ve invested a considerable amount of time training. If you want to continue improving, I can teach you.”

He spools more noodles onto his chopsticks.

“Additionally,” he says, after a swallow, “my investigations have been proceeding better than usual recently. As I put pressure the target, I suspect you might be attacked as well.”

The CCG’s activities have been under some new criticism recently, thanks to the two of them, but there are still some ghouls that everyone agrees should be pursued.

“Are you talking about the one that killed your squad?” Touka asks, feeling ill.

“SSS-rate One-Eyed Owl,” Arima says. “Yes.”

_SSS._

And one of Aogiri's. So much for Ayato protecting her from threats.

What the fuck can she do if a ghoul _that powerful_ comes after her?

“It's not a lost cause,” he says, as if he can read her mind. “Your reaction time is delayed by about a fifth of a second. With practice, you should be able to eliminate it almost completely.”

Is this person real? A _fifth of a second?_

“What makes you think that small amount of time is going to do me any good?” Touka asks. “You probably trained your own squad too, right? It’s clear milliseconds didn't do _them_ any good.”

Arima doesn't even flinch. “That's correct. It didn't.”

He's done with the noodles now; he pushes the empty tray aside and begins unpeeling the wrapper from a riceball.

All of it is food from a convenience store, Touka realizes. How unexpected. And pathetic. She watches him eat, trying to stifle her memories of Yoriko before they cut too deep.

“It's your choice,” he says. “Personally, I think sparring will be far more entertaining than going to another dozen cafes.”

Well, she can’t disagree with that.

:::

One thing’s for certain, though: going to cafes together is much more “romantic” than getting thrown on her back dozens of times an evening.

“Your idea of romance is a little chaste,” Arima says, when she mentions this, and after his meaning sinks in, Touka stiffens and an instant later finds her spine smacking onto the table again. She rolls onto her side, hissing.

_“Fuck!”_

“Kirishima-san,” Arima says. “Get up.”

_“Get up,”_ he repeats, when she doesn’t, and she sucks in a breath and stands again, legs shaking.

_He killed Kaneki,_ she tells herself. _He’s a murderer. He’s using me. I’m nothing more than a walking, talking quinque. He might still kill me when all this is done._

She charges — _jabs_ — her hand passes within a centimeter of his face, and excitement charges through her, and then he swings his arm around, and clamps, and the world blurs. She slams down on the table, and this time coughs and spasms and just lies there, chest heaving, eyes watering with pain.

“Fuck you,” Touka gasps as he peers over her.

“0.22 seconds,” Arima remarks. “Good job.”

His hand moves and she flinches and then realizes he’s just offering to help her up. She eyes his outstretched hand, and then eyes his expression, which hasn’t changed a bit.

She takes his hand, and releases it as soon as she’s on her feet. She pats down her thighs, as if brushing off dust.

By the next week she can manage, almost, to keep her balance or at least roll when he throws her. He teaches her his way of moving, and striking, and his various methods of evaluating opponents. One day he brings back a pair of wooden swords, and, after Touka’s requisite protests, his office begins echoing with loud clacks and claps.

_He killed Kaneki,_ she tells herself, trying to summon rage enough to guide and strengthen her aim. _He’s a murderer. A monster. A machine._

And under his guidance she’s improving more than she has in years, and much faster than under Yoshimura or even Nii-san’s guidance. Her time decreases, steadily, incredibly — and then, to her frustration, plateaus. For days.

_He killed him,_ she chants. _He killed him, he killed him, he killed him._

She charges.

_Clack — clack!_

The point of Arima’s blade is at her eye again. She curses and he lowers it.

“That was close,” he tells her. “Let’s have dinner and try again tomorrow.”

_“No,”_ Touka growls.

“No?”

“One more,” she says. “Just one more round.” She’s so close, she can feel it, she can feel it. She sucks in a long breath, adjusts her grip.

_Just a little faster,_ she recites. _Just a little faster, to get to a tenth of a second. A tenth, a tenth, a tenth —_

She raises the sword, waits. Arima’s breath pauses, just for a moment, and she raises her blade, just in time.

_Clack! Clack! Clack!_

Their blades meet again and again and — and — _there!_ — she shoves his weapon aside, and raises her leg to kick him in the stomach. He drops his sword and grabs her ankle with his hands before her kick can sink in. Touka wavers and yanks her foot back, and he releases her to stumble back.

“Well?” she pants, setting her hands on her knees. “How long?”

“0.18,” Arima says.

Her eyes widen. “Really? You’re not lying?”

“I’m not. Fine work, Kirishima-san.”

She did it. _She did it._

Touka gulps in a breath of air and bends her head down. She covers her mouth, tries to compose herself.

_I did it._

She didn’t even know that she was capable of being this good. And now — because of Arima —

_Calm down_ , she tells herself. _Calm down, calm down, calm down._

It’s only expected that after training so hard for a while it would be difficult to catch her breath.

“Alright,” she manages, a minute later, with a straight face. “ _Now_ let’s have dinner.”


	10. accumulate | centimeter budges

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> That's sweet, that you noticed something like that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> to those following this fic, thanks so much for your comments and patience, i appreciate it so much.  ~~this chapter has been so difficult to write (aaaAHHH),~~  i hope you are having a good day & that you enjoy~

From there, progression is smoother. Arima comes home and stows his dinner in the fridge; then they train, and afterward return to the kitchen to finish up the night eating and sitting in silence. Arima reviews his case files, and Touka reads.

The days are languid, and the news, thankfully, is beginning to slow as well. There are still photographers, but not so many that the curtains need to be shut all the time lest prying eyes see her and Arima beating each other up or else spending the majority of their time not speaking to each other. Touka still has interviews, but they are fewer, and she’s mostly glad about it because she’s running out of ideas for dates and general fluff to talk about.

More troublesome is the fact that, recently, the media has been more interested in speculating about why certain ghouls are attacking the newly-made ghoul shelters. Touka notices that on the days when discussion gets particularly heated, Arima comes home late. She waits by herself in the evenings and eats as she paces. She dials Ayato’s number a couple times, but never finishes.

:::

Finally, things are approaching the mundane regularity of “everyday life.“ Lots of things are different than the previous kind she led. Others, like the empty walls, the hollow corridors, the way her every movement seems to echo in the house…well, those are familiar enough.

:::

One evening, Arima returns to find Touka sitting on the kitchen counter. He glances across its bare surface, and then into the living room, where her book is facedown on the table.

“What happened?” he asks, and Touka hesitates just a bit before she lets it burst out of her.

“It’s Yoriko.”

“Something happened to Kosaka-san?”

“No, no. She’s fine.” Touka fidgets, and bites her lip. “She just…came to visit.”

Journalists hadn’t tried the front door in ages, so some part of her had thought — or rather, hoped — that the one knocking would be Ayato. The person outside turned out to have bright hair, though, and Touka had felt puzzled, and then stabbed.

“ _Hi,_ ” Yoriko had said shyly, and Touka…Touka couldn’t say anything.

:::

“She’s your friend,” Arima reminds her.

“I know,” Touka tells him, and for the moment finds herself thankful rather than irritated by his research. She shifts her weight back and forth on the counter. Her next words are quiet.

“But…I…abandoned her.”

Arima is probably the last person she should be talking to about this, but she spun through the contacts of her phone dozens of times before flinging it across the couch. Once the words that have been storming and whirling in her head begin to leak out, they don’t stop.

“I never spoke to her again, after…that day. We were supposed to go to the zoo, but I never showed up. She made me all my favorite foods, and I didn’t even call. I didn’t even try to find her.”

Arima eyes her as she speak. He sets his food down on the counter beside her.

“Why?” he asks.

“Because  _everyone_  knew what happened with that cafe! So she — she probably figured. About me.”

“She knows now,” Arima says. “If not from the raid, then from the interviews.” He pauses, thinks. “So, you’re upset because she came here and was furious with you.“

“No!” Touka protests. “No. She wasn’t.”

“Then what?”

:::

_“Touka-chan,”_  Yoriko had said, smiling at the ground and scratching her head.  _“Do…do you want to go to a cafe sometime?”_

:::

Touka clutches her arm and can’t say more, and after some time Arima puts his food away and says, “Let’s get started,” and they do. Touka stretches out her arms and kicks at the air and after the second round she says, “Yoriko is just — the best person I’ve ever met.”

“Is that so.”

“And a lot has changed,” Touka says, dodging a swing and aiming a kick back. “About…about everything, but also about me, personally. I’ve probably changed a lot. What if I can’t talk to her about anything?”

The blunt edge of Arima’s hand stops a centimeter from her throat. Touka sighs and rubs her forehead as they both step backward. This is stupid. Why is she talking to him about all this? What does a killing machine know about interpersonal relationships?

“You should go,” he says.

Touka blinks. “Really?”

“She asked you. You want to. So, do it.”

“Are you even listening to me?” Touka snaps. “I’ve been saying this whole time that I don’t know if we can still be friends at all.”

Arima steps down from the table, rolling down and straightening his sleeves.

“I don’t know if you can maintain your relationship. But you have reservations about seeing her because you’re afraid of ruining whatever you have with her,” he says. “That’s why you didn’t look for her after the raid, either. Fortunately, now you know that she likely doesn’t despise you for lying. And, you don’t seem to dislike her either. So, you should go. Let’s eat dinner.”

He opens the door, and waits. Touka stays, fists gripping and loosening over and over.

Presumptuous Arima. Thinks he knows everything.

Usually knows everything.

“Kirishima-san,” he calls, and Touka clears her throat, and steps down.

:::

Touka sips quickly, partly out of nervousness and partly because the cup’s coffee-heated ceramic is hurting her hands.

It’s…not…so bad. Yoriko recently started a culinary course, and is interning. She seems excited; she can pay for her own place to live, a unit with an unexpectedly nice kitchen. After years of chasing away thoughts of her, Touka feels genuinely glad to know she’s doing well, and her heart only drops when Yoriko says, “What about you?”

“About me…” Touka sips, pretending to be overwhelmed with what to say instead of totally at loss. What has she been doing that hasn’t been related to Arima and their stupid drama? What can she say that isn’t a lie?

“I was surprised to see you on television,” Yoriko prompts, and then laughs, a little. “I’ve, um…been reading all the articles. And so on.”

“Is that so,” Touka says, with an expression that she hopes isn’t too much of a grimace.

“Yeah! To be honest, I was kind of…confused, at first. I didn’t really think that Arima-san…would be your type…? I mean — I guess I didn’t really know — but anyway — it seems like a really good match. I know that what ends up on the interviews is edited a little, but, you’ve been together for a while now, right?”

“I guess,” Touka says. The date Arima decided would be the official start of their relationship is months back now, almost a year. She doesn’t elaborate, and after a while Yoriko coughs.

“Um,” Yoriko says. “I know Arima-san is really important to you, so, how about…you tell me more about him?”

She smiles and wrings a napkin and winces when it tears in half. Yoriko is uncomfortable, but Touka can’t bear to conjure the warm smile that she’s managed on a whim for everyone else. She is terrible.

_It’s a lie,_  Touka wants to say.  _You never knew the truth about me and now you still don’t._

But she supposes can at least manage little truths. Touka takes a breath.

“He likes standing on tables.”

Yoriko’s brows furrow. “He…um…what?”

“It’s weird,” Touka says, looking out the window. “I don’t get it. He’s got a high rank or whatever, and physically he’s a huge person, so it’s not like he doesn’t already know how it feels to be above everything.”

This is strangely easy to talk about, even though she can tell Yoriko is staring at her.

“Tables,” she echoes. “Okay. Is it…um…any kind of table?”

“It’s usually the big conference table in his office,” Touka says. She considers. “But I bet he would stand on others. I don’t know. Maybe he’d stand on whatever wouldn’t break under him.”

“I…see.” Yoriko takes the first bite of her pastry. “W-well…what happens once he gets on top of it?”

“We fight.”

“You — what?”

“Sorry. I should have been clearer. It’s not that we’re arguing.” Oh, it feels really good to tell the truth. “We spar.”

“So — wait — that means you’re up on the table too?”

“Yeah,” Touka realizes. “I guess so. I guess it’s not that bad. We’ve been working on it and my reaction time used to be a fifth of a second, but now it’s 0.15.”

“W-wow. There’s a timer that can count that precisely?”

“Yeah. It’s Arima.”

“Oh. I see. So…so why is it that you spar at all? Oh,” Yoriko says, “is it so that you’ll be safer? Because there are some ghou — er, people attacking the shelters now, right? And you’ve been attacked a couple times already, outside of that.”

“Yeah.” Thanks to him. That particular nugget of truth is probably unnecessary for now.

Yoriko takes another bite, and Touka watches her slow chews, and says, “He eats convenience store food for dinner, too. Every day.”

“Oh, really? That’s, um, interesting. I thought…I mean, I assumed someone like Arima-san would have…kind of a refined palate.”

“I thought so too. But he just gets bottled tea and some kind of noodle meal set and the same salmon-flavored onigiri every evening. Sometimes he has bags from two different convenience stores, so I think if the usual place runs out, he goes somewhere else to find it.”

“That’s sweet,” Yoriko says. “That you noticed something like that.”

“The whole thing is annoying,” Touka says. “It makes him come home late on the days when he isn’t overworking. If a customer is that regular, you might as well reserve some for him, right?”

“Yeah. Definitely.”

There’s a movement. Touka looks back at Yoriko, finally, and sees that she is smiling. And wiping her eyes.

“I-I’m sorry. It’s…it’s just…really good to know that there’s someone that comes home to you. Someone that’s there for you. Especially…since I…wasn’t there for you. At all.”

Touka starts. “Hey,” she says sharply, “you’re not at fault for anything, it’s not you at all, it’s  _my_  fault,” but Yoriko shakes her head.

“No, I think…I mean, I knew at the time, that it would have been hard for you to find me. But I just…I don’t know. I wasn’t sure what to do. And then before I knew it, years had passed.” Her voice slows, hobbles. “So, at least you found Arima-san. And he did…what I was afraid to do. He stayed with you, even though you’re a ghoul.”

Her voice is getting shaky. “I really, really hope you can forgive me,” Yoriko stammers, and her voice is crumbling, and she is clenching what remains of her soggy napkin, and Touka reaches out and grabs Yoriko’s hands, palms cupping hard over her knuckles.

“ _Stop_. Yoriko,  _I’m_  the one that needs to be forgiven,” Touka says, and suddenly now her voice is breaking too, and Yoriko curls her hands away but it’s only to press and wipe at her eyes again. Amazingly, then, Yoriko laughs.

“We’re really suited to be friends, aren’t we,” she says, and the smile that cracks Touka’s face is so big that it hurts.

:::

Arima doesn’t comment when Touka returns late that day with slightly blotchy cheeks. He just stands, and retrieves his dinner, and hers, from the fridge. Touka interprets this as a pretty obvious  _I told you so,_  and she supposes a  _Thank you_  or something is in order, but her throat tightens at the thought of it. Probably, Arima’s advice came simply from wanting to keep her performance optimal for their plans, and something as sentimental as gratefulness would mean nothing. Or just make her look stupid.

She watches as he unpeels his rice ball from its plastic. The next day, during dinner, she snatches his food from his hands before he can begin to unravel it.

“Here,” Touka says, and holds out a different rice ball. He takes it, and turns it over in his hands, examining. It’s larger, and fatter. And uneven.

“You made this,” he says. She taps her fingers on the counter.

“Just eat it,” she tells him, and he brings it up, and bites.

And chews.

Wordlessly.

“Well?” she demands. Her heart is beginning to race a little, and increases its pace as he just continues eating without comment.

Once every grain and flake is gone, Arima takes a napkin from the convenience store bag and wipes his fingers.

“The seaweed was soggy,” he says, and Touka stiffens.

“O-oh.”

“You also used too much salt, and the filling wasn’t cooked through completely,” he says. “Overall, however, it was delicious.”

Touka huffs. “Yeah. Sure.”

“I’m serious,” he says, and she frowns.

“If you really liked it,” she says, “you could stand to look a  _little_  happier about it.”

Arima watches her. His expression doesn’t budge a centimeter, and she grits her teeth and flings the store-bought rice ball at him. He catches it.

“It’s not a big deal anyway,” she grumbles. “I just thought it’d be a good story for my next interview. A ghoul taking pity on the Reaper’s shitty convenience store diet and trying to make box lunches or something for him. You humans are into things like that, right?”

“I wouldn’t know,” Arima tells her. “No one’s ever made me a box lunch. But people seem to agree it has a certain appeal.” He stands, and places the store-bought rice ball into the fridge.

“Thank you for the food,” he says.

“You’re welcome,” she mumbles.

Well, what was she expecting? Of course he wouldn’t have a different reaction than usual. Of course.

The next day, though, his dinner doesn’t include rice balls. Instead, what he has alongside his usual meal set is a small, empty lunchbox from a dollar store.

“Unless you’ve changed your mind,” he says. “In which case, I can just make them myself and say you did it. But, they’ll probably be too perfect, and no one will believe that I made them.”

He says it with a slight snort, and she doesn’t need to look up to know that his head is tilted, too. She looks down at her hands.

“You really want me to?”

“I think,” he says, “it might be nice to know what it feels like.”

Touka sighs and picks up the lunchbox.

“In that case,” she tells him, “you better enjoy your extra-soggy, extra-salty rice balls.”

Soon, though, with Yoriko’s help, Touka can make them as well as if she could eat them herself.


	11. iris | rose tint

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> haaahhhh, i know how frustrating it is to read WIPs, especially when updates take like literally months, soo, thanks to those who are still interested in this fic and following along. i hope that you have a good day ahead & that you enjoy this longerish update~

Finally, there comes a knock.

Touka stares at the closed door. Collects her breath.

What should she say?

_“Hello! Welcome!”_ That was the bright voice she used for the touring cameras. That, at least, would show that she was really happy, right?

Would they expect to see her really happy?

Or would that just look fake?

_I should just look mildly happy,_ she thinks.

That would be more real. Uh — more realistic. It’s not like they would expect her to be actually happy at all in this situation, right?

…and it’s not like that’s actually the case.

She’s taking too long. She makes one last glance around the entryway. The closet is cracked open, and she quickly shuts it, removing Arima’s overcoat from sight. She brushes her hands on her clothing, and then curses as the knocking gets louder.

No more hesitations. Touka lunges and swings the door open.

“Hey,” she says, a little loudly. “Welcome.”

“About time,” Ayato grumbles. “We were starting to think we were invited into some kind of stupid Reaper trap.”

“No,” Touka says, through her teeth. “He wouldn’t do that. It was really me.”

:::

_“Can I invite…um…some friends? Over here?”_

_“Of course. You don’t need to ask.”_

_“It’s not for…politics or anything. They’re involved in — in certain things, but…well, seeing Yoriko went really well, so I was thinking…it’s just…I just want to see them.”_

_“It’s fine, Kirishima-san. Please see whoever pleases you.”_

:::

“Hi, Hinami,” Touka continues, and Hinami looks up, with a faint smile.

“Hi, Nee-san.”

Seconds pass in silence before Touka gathers enough wit to wave them in. Ayato and Hinami exchange glances; then Ayato shoulders in first, squinting all around at the hallway: the bright light, the shelved shoes. His gaze lingers on the closed closet and impatiently Touka says, “What? It’s not like he’s going to pop out of there.”

Ayato snorts, and then glances back to Hinami, who waits, listening, and then nods back. Touka fidgets as they remove their shoes, and then she leads them in.

“Well,” she says, spreading her arms. “Here it is.”

“Looks smaller than it looked on the interviews,” Ayato remarks. He scans and paces the house’s main space with hands in his pockets.

“I didn’t know you were interested in human lifestyle shows,” Touka says dryly.

“I’ll watch anything that’ll let me see what kind of security the Reaper has,” Ayato says, lifting up a pillow to examine what’s underneath. “How else can I be sure it’s good enough to keep my sister safe?”

“Oh,” Touka says. Is he…joking? She blinks, and then shakes her head. She looks back into the kitchen.

“Do you want coffee? Or food?”

“Not me,” Ayato says.

“Um…sure. Coffee,” Hinami says, in a way that suggests she doesn’t actually want it but is aware of all the time that needs to be filled. They take seats on the counter while Touka works the little espresso machine and realizes too late that she didn’t hide the rice cooker. Hopefully they won’t ask about it.

Then again, why would they? It’s a perfectly normal thing to have in a human household, right?

“Um,” Hinami says, “what’s that thing, right next to the espresso machine?”

Fuck.

“Oh, um, this? It’s just a…what was it…a rice cooker. For cooking rice. Arima uses it,” Touka explains, without turning. “For his food.”

“Neat,” Ayato says, a little too enthusiastically.

Touka finishes their coffees in silence. Though he declined it, she makes one for Ayato anyway, and as she sits down she slides the cups across the counter to them. They all sip. Touka fiddles with the handle of her mug.

“So…” Touka coughs. “So, Nii-san couldn’t make it?”

“Nah,” Ayato answers. “It’s pretty hard for him to run that cafe by himself, you know.”

“Ah…yeah. I guess it would be.” Touka presses her hands hard around her mug, using the heat of it to ignore the pang in her chest. “Did he…have anything to say?”

Ayato and Hinami exchange glances. Hinami opens her mouth, and then looks down and purses it shut. Ayato turns to Touka.

“No,” he says. “But, come on, he usually doesn’t have anything to say anyway, right?”

“Yeah…I guess not.” Touka grips harder.

“How have you been doing, Nee-san?” Hinami ventures with a soft smile. “Is everything okay?”

“Yeah…everything’s fine.”

“Is that man…” Hinami pauses, amends. “Is Arima-san treating you well?”

“Yeah…well…yeah.”

“Really?” Hinami prods. “He’s really not hurting you?”

“Well,” Touka says dryly, “not without my consent,” and when Hinami and Ayato’s eyes widen, Touka almost screams.

“No — _no_ , it’s not — I’m not talking about — what I meant was that he’s training me.”

And when they look even more ill: “No, it’s not — what I mean is, there’s a table, and we get on it and —”

“I really,” Ayato says, “just don’t want to know about it.”

They all sip. Touka tries to take long breaths to extinguish her face.

“A-anyway,” she tries, “I’m really fine. Recently he hasn’t even been at home.” She pauses, and then moves on quickly, hoping to cover up any possible bitterness. “He’s too busy.”

“Doing what?” Ayato asks.

“Well…hunting your boss,” Touka admits dryly. Ayato laughs.

“Ah, right, right. Good luck with that.”

He seems legitimately pleased by the idea, but Hinami just droops further.

“Don’t worry,” Touka tells her. “I’ve overheard things about them, sometimes, at the office. About how evenly matched they are. I doubt they’ll actually catch up to each other any time soon.”

“Yeah,” Hinami says, obviously just to agree. Touka tries again.

“And if they do catch up to each other, they probably won’t be able to kill each other outright. Well, not immediately, anyway. And —”

“I — I want to see the rest of the house,” Hinami blurts, standing. “Is that okay, Nee-san?”

“Ah…sure. Yeah. Of course.”

They stand, waiting for Ayato to down his drink and then leaving the cups behind as they continue. Touka goes down her corridor first, pointing out “a bathroom” and “the guest room,” both of which she cleaned up so they look relatively uninhabited. Back down into Arima’s corridor, she waves her hand vaguely towards “the bedroom” and is glad when neither Ayato nor Hinami ask to see any closer.

They have the usual remarks for everything she shows them — “Wow, looks nice;” “Amazing, it’s really fancy” — but when she shows them the conference room, Ayato bursts into laughter.

“What is _that_?”

“A table. A conference table.”

“I didn’t even know they made tables that big. What’s the point of having something like that in your _house_?”

“He used to have meetings in here, with his squad,” Touka explains. “Before they were all killed.”

“Good riddance.” Ayato snorts. “Too bad, though. I guess there’s no easy way to get rid of a gigantic table that you’re not using.”

“Well, it’s not that it’s not being used at all.”

Actually…

Touka smiles, and in an instant she is on the table, looking down at the two of them. Hinami’s eyes are wide; and Ayato’s are as well, but he soon recognizes Touka falling into stance, and smirks back up at her.

“So that’s what you meant earlier.” He jumps up onto the table, and finds his balance too, just as he taught her.

“W-wait,” Hinami says. “What are you doing?”

“Nothing dangerous,” Ayato says, without looking down at her.

“No kagune,” Touka says.

“Duh.”

“Are you — ? Wait, are you two _really_ going to —? I mean, is — is the top of a table _really_ the best place for —”

“We’ll be fine,” Touka tells her, and that is when Ayato moves. He takes one step forward, and then another. He — is starting? He is holding out his arm as if to hit her, and Touka blinks. She ducks, and poses her hand with fingers spread so when he takes another step forward, his chest bumps against her palm. He stumbles back, so hard that he falls flat on his back.

Well, that was…strange. Is he playing with her? Hinami’s hands fly up to her mouth, and Touka opens her own mouth to say something — _What are you doing?_ — but before she can, Ayato is on his feet again, with a furious glare.

He starts toward her again, but this time is weirder than the first. She steps out of the way of each strike, or else holds up a hand to meet his fists, like a children’s clapping game. Finally, his arm stretches toward her, and Touka hesitates, then grabs it, and bends. His whole body goes over her shoulder and when she turns he has somehow slid all the way to the other end of the table and is scrabbling to keep himself from falling off. Once his body squeaks to a halt, he groans, and doesn’t get up.

“What’s the matter?” Touka asks. And then, when he coughs: “Are you sick?”

“No,” Ayato mutters. He stands, shakily. His breath is a little ragged.

“You _are_ sick,” Touka realizes, and starts toward him to try and check his temperature.

“Stop already!” Ayato snaps. He jumps down from the table, rubbing his arm. “I’m done, I’m done.”

“You’re…done being sick?”

“No! I’m done with — whatever the hell that was.”

“Sparring?” Touka asks. “But…we didn’t even get started.”

Ayato stares. Touka looks to Hinami to support, but Hinami is pale, and jumps when Touka looks at her. Touka tries again.

“Is this…a joke?” She laughs, feebly. “I mean…you can’t have been trying. You were at least 0.25 seconds slow, if not more.”

Ayato’s brows furrow. Touka looks back to Hinami, who just clears her throat and echoes, weakly: “0.25 seconds?”

Touka’s hand claps over her mouth.

:::

She tries to get them back onto the table in an effort to teach them what she knows, and Ayato agrees, though not without a lot of whining. Years spent growing up apart from each other has diverged his fighting style far from what it was when it was just them, together; and there’s plenty to improve. Hinami sits on one edge of the table, but no matter how Touka calls out to her, she only smiles briefly before returning to tracing the wood grain with her fingers.

Back in the kitchen, they make more coffee, and though Hinami still hasn’t quite brightened up by the end of things, Ayato is positively cheerful despite their less-than-balanced sparring session. Before the two of them leave, Touka pulls him aside.

“Are you…really okay, then?” she asks. “With my…with the situation?”

“Well, yeah,” Ayato tells her. He rubs his nose. “If it’s what you want, Aneki. I think…” He pauses. “Somehow, I think it’ll all turn out for the best.”

He smiles at her, and Touka is startled into smiling back.

“Ayato-kun,” Hinami calls. “Come on. We should head back.” She is checking her phone, but looks up just long enough to wave a brief farewell.

:::

Things went…remarkably well. Hinami seemed…a little off, sure, but…overall, it went…fine. No shouting. No slammed doors. And then…

_“If it’s what you want, Aneki…it’ll all turn out for the best.”_

_Maybe,_ she thinks. _Maybe…it might all actually be okay._

_All_ of it. Being like this. Living like this. Arima is — well, there’s all sorts of horrible things about him, but — but if even _Ayato_ can think that things might be fine…then…

Then maybe…maybe…

She feels, somehow, exhilarated. It hadn’t been that bad, either, sparring with Ayato — not just for the nostalgia, but for the fact that he hadn’t been able to strike her even once without her giving him an opening. Being closeted up with only Arima beating her all the time had given her the impression that she wasn’t improving at all, but now — if she hadn’t trained and fought with Ayato herself, she might have thought from the very beginning that he was just a weakling. She can’t believe how much she’s changed.

Touka considers, and then brings out a bowl of water and some salt. She palms together a couple of rice balls, and makes her way to headquarters with them tucked into a spare plastic bag. Who knows when he’ll be back home today; she might as well go and see him and share the good news.

:::

She’s only been to the Dove offices a couple times, and always at Arima’s request — so he can show her the layout of the place, or else introduce her to various Doves who she makes smiles at and immediately forgets.

No one forgets her, though. A beat after she enters the building, the atmosphere twists, and sharpens. Years of hiding and running have made Touka sensitive to such shifts, and the past months have made her good at pretending not to notice them. She silently recites what she’s going to say, and keeps her gaze straight as she approaches the reception desk beside the ghoul detection gates.

The receptionist, despite being a familiar woman, doesn’t meet her eye. “Do you have an appointment.”

“Ah, no, I don’t. Could you please call Kishou for me?”

“Call him?” The receptionist grimaces. “I can’t just…that is…Special Class Arima-san…is not the type of person that you just…” She takes a breath. “Special Class Arima-san is a very busy person.”

“That’s fine. Please just let him know I’m here, and I’ll wait until he’s done with...whatever.”

The grimace becomes a frown. “Where will you wait?”

Touka looks around. The only chairs in the lobby are beyond the detection gate. The receptionist follows her gaze, and when she remains silent, Touka says, “I can wait right here.”

The frown becomes a flinch. “Understood,” the receptionist manages. She spins her chair around to tap the number pad of a phone and murmur into it, and after a minute of speaking, she turns back.

“He’ll be here soon.”

With a nod, Touka moves away a bit, and stands, just outside the gate, peering in.

Arima has let her through the gate before, but, despite the circumstances, she can’t help not wanting to get near it lest her proximity set off some kind of alarm. A minute passes, and then another, and another, and many more. People are passing in and out of the gate with uneasy glances in her direction, and Touka swallows.

Why is she here? Was it really so important for them to talk in person? She could have just — called, or something.

No — no, she couldn’t. She purses her lips. Without seeing him, she wouldn’t be able to read his real reaction at all.

_It’s fine,_ she tells herself. Once he gets here, he can let her in. They’ll eat a little, and chat, and then she can go back home. Easy. Normal. This is a perfectly normal and acceptable situation.

She starts and cranes every time she sees someone approach from the other side, but the silhouette always turns out to be the wrong color, or else much smaller than it should be. Then —

_There!_

“Ari —“ Touka starts, and stops. Arima is entering, but proceeding toward another side of the room — and, someone is with him. Touka stiffens.

_A coworker,_ she thinks, but — no — this person isn’t wearing a Dove’s coat. They are speaking animatedly, and as Touka watches, the person slaps Arima’s arm and begins laughing so hard that their shoulders shake.

The two of them have stopped before a coffee machine at the other side of the room, and Arima is setting a styrofoam cup beneath the dispenser as the person continues to talk. Touka’s fist clenches. She can practically smell how watery and generally shitty that coffee is from here. What’s the matter with him?  Doesn’t he have any tastebuds? Wasn’t he told she was here?

“Arima,” she calls.

He doesn’t hear. The person that he’s with is drowning her out, probably; they’re fluttering around him, and still chattering on. They’re too out of earshot to hear properly, but the quality of their voice is — lower than Touka expected, given the person’s height. Much more mature. They’re probably closer to Arima’s age than Touka is.

And they’re standing so closely beside him.

Beyond the gate.

Her stomach churns. Touka steps forward — catches herself, just in time — and then steps forward again, as close as she can get without triggering the gate with the hands cupped over her mouth. The receptionist starts and says something that Touka ignores.

_”Arima!”_ she calls, and this time both he and the person beside him turn toward her. The person grins broadly and waves, with their whole arm. Arima gestures  _One moment;_ and then, when his drink is fully dispensed, approaches.

“Good evening,” he says, when he’s within earshot. “What are you doing here, Touka?”

He called her Touka. _Shit._ She forgot to call him Kishou, earlier. Well — well, the only person around to witness is…is whoever it is that’s beside him, and maybe they didn’t notice. Arima and the other person stop on the other side of the gate; the person’s arms flourish as they halt. They adjust their large, circular glasses, and brush back their messy hair.

“It looks like your darling came to bring you dinner, Arima,” the person says, looking at the bag dangling from Touka’s hand.

“Did you?” Arima asks. “That wasn’t necessary.”

“Huuhhhh?! Wow, _wow_ , what a cold heart! Don’t you appreciate your sweetheart’s feelings? We’ve been working so late recently, maybe you should accept a little kindness now and then.” The person prods their finger thoughtfully against their cheek. “Besides, I don’t think I’ve seen you eat anything all day.”

Touka’s other fist tightens.

_Slow down. Calm down._

Touka’s voice, when it comes out, manages a pinch of its usual sweetness.

“Excuse me, but, who are you?”

“Ah! Of course, of course. My apologies. I’ve heard so, so much about you, Touka-chan! It’s so easy to forget that we haven’t been formally introduced.”

The person bows, with a bounce, and adjusts her glasses again as she straightens.

“Even though we haven’t met in person yet, Arima mentioned that he’s seen you read some of my novels, so...in some ways, our lives have been intertwined for a while.” Her smile hasn’t faltered even once this whole time, and remains as broad as it was when Touka first saw it. “My name is Takatsuki Sen. I’m very, very pleased to meet you.”


End file.
